


the more it goes

by troubadore



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Friends to Lovers, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, this is not a happy fic lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22358332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubadore/pseuds/troubadore
Summary: Witchers don’t have feelings, they say, and Geralt just hums because it’s easier to agree than to tell them,No, no, we absolutely do.How do you tell someone who believes you to be a heartless beast that you’ve fallen so deeply in love with the first person toseeyou andacceptyou that you want to burst?That your blood pumps hot and thick in your veins when he smiles at you and your slow-beating heart stops altogether when the cornflower blue of his eyes shines like drops of crystal as he looks at you like you’re something precious to him?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 33
Kudos: 300





	the more it goes

**Author's Note:**

> i've been working on this fic for like 3 days bc angst isn't my forte but it just _would not let me rest_ until i'd written it all out orz 
> 
> it's probably a little wordy for being from geralt's pov but i like to think he's got a lot going on internally so here we are 
> 
>   
> title from a poem by [lang leav](https://twitter.com/langleav/status/1217958203587096576)  
> (for bonus angst listen to state of mine's cover of [what hurts the most](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BC_f1DuhPAA) while u read)

Geralt has lived a long, long time.

It’s the nature of what he is, and it’s never bothered him. Being a witcher is all he’s known, a life of always being on the move, never staying still or lingering in a single place. Mainly because humans don’t want him around their towns and their cities and their homes unless they’ve got a monster problem they can’t take care of themselves—then they let him stay but only until the monster is dead and they’ve given him the coin he’s due.

But there’s also this urge, an itch beneath his skin that he can only scratch by being on the road, a sharp sting in his veins like poison that only abates when he can feel the air whip through his hair and smell nothing but dirt and himself; no unease, no fear like sour milk on his tongue or hatred like rancid meat in his nose. 

When a bard joins him, inserting himself into Geralt's life like it's his place—his _right_ —and annoying him with endless chatter and salacious songs, the urge eases, the itch soothed. Jaskier lives to move, to travel and see the world and never the same place twice. He'd just as soon sleep under the stars, odes to the gods and goddesses plucked from his lute with deft fingers, voice soft and reverent, than settle in a town where nothing new happens and his inspiration runs dry. 

He smells of orange honey and rainstorms, like excitement and happiness, and he complements Geralt's lifestyle in a way Geralt hadn't thought possible. Witchers are meant to be solitary beings, alone and lonely—the price for what they are—and Geralt never disputed it: it's easier to be alone when all you have to offer is the blood on your hands from your latest kill.

But Jaskier makes it...bearable. Makes it a little less burdensome to have nothing but his own thoughts with him when the sun fades beyond the horizon.

Now there’s always a song coming from smiling lips, lyrics praising his feats and calling him a hero, and Jaskier looks at him full of trust, not a trace of fear to be found. He’s never had a friend like that before.

 _Loving_ Jaskier, though—Geralt doesn’t anticipate that. His senses are heightened and his reflexes are quick as lightning, but it takes him by surprise to look at Jaskier one day, lute in hand and singing brightly, and realize the heavy feeling in his chest is _affection,_ it’s _fondness,_ it’s—

—it’s _love_.

 _Witchers don’t have feelings,_ they say, and Geralt just hums because it’s easier to agree than to tell them, _No, no, we absolutely do._

How do you tell someone who believes you to be a heartless beast that you’ve fallen so deeply in love with the first person to _see_ you and _accept_ you that you want to burst?

That your blood pumps hot and thick in your veins when he smiles at you and your slow-beating heart stops altogether when the cornflower blue of his eyes shines like drops of crystal as he looks at you like you’re something precious to him?

He doesn’t anticipate loving Jaskier, but it’s like breathing: natural, reflexive. He doesn’t even think about it until something tries to take it away—when Jaskier doesn’t fucking listen and follows him on a hunt and the beast nearly rips his throat out, or when he flirts with the wrong lord’s daughter and gets himself cursed by a mage for hire—and Geralt doesn’t draw breath again until he’s safe and whole and singing his songs in the next tavern they stay in.

It’s love, and Jaskier knows love like he knows the kind of poetry to break a thousand hearts, and the kind of music that will make even the most unruly backwater commoner stomp his feet and dance, and he recognizes it in Geralt with one glance of his blue, blue eyes. Geralt is laid bare before him, slow heart heavy in his blood-soaked hands, covered in scars. Jaskier sees it, and he takes it gently in his own hands—hands that are rough with callouses, strong despite their delicateness, but so, so tender with Geralt—and he cradles it close to his chest and says, _I’ll take care of it._

Geralt is given the honor of holding Jaskier’s heart in return, overflowing with his love and his joy, and Geralt treasures it. He keeps it tucked away between his ribs under his armor and guards it with his life. Jaskier’s love is an overwhelming force, a storm in a bottle that nearly drowns Geralt for how strong and lasting it is. 

It scares him, at first, how deeply Jaskier cares and loves. It scares him and he lashes out and Jaskier just looks at him with sad blue eyes before he walks away, and Geralt is scared for another reason—what if Jaskier takes his love back, pulls his heart back out of Geralt’s chest and replaces it in his own, and throws Geralt’s heart back at him, more torn and bloody than before? No one’s ever kept his heart this long before, no one’s ever _wanted_ to keep his heart before, why would Jaskier?

It’s the longest year of his long, long life. Time moves on, but Geralt feels stationary, caught in a stasis that won’t let him catch up. He fights and he kills and he finds Ciri and there’s so much to do, but he’s stopped, can’t move, can’t _breathe_ because his heart is gone—

 _He’s_ gone—

—and then it comes back, because Jaskier always, _always_ comes back, even when Geralt doesn’t deserve it, but he’s _there,_ playing in a tavern like the first time they’d met, except people don’t throw stale bread at him anymore, it’s always at least fresh but mostly it’s coins—and Geralt meets his blue, blue eyes and hopes when he says _I’m sorry_ Jaskier will at least accept that even if he doesn’t forgive him.

Jaskier gives him a small, soft smile, full of relief, and says, _I forgave you a long time ago._ And then he buys Geralt a drink, and they spend the night talking in his room at the inn, and Geralt tastes orange honey and ale on his lips when Jaskier kisses him, fingers tangled in his hair and drawing noises out of Geralt like he draws notes from his lute.

Geralt can breathe again, and time doesn’t feel at a stand still anymore. Being with Jaskier makes the days long and the nights longer, his chattiness a balm on the roads and his hands gentle, careful things on Geralt’s skin beneath the gaze of the stars. They fall back into sync, into their routine, but it’s _better_ , it’s _good,_ and Geralt promises not to take it for granted again, vowing to cherish Jaskier the way he deserves to be cherished.

But time doesn’t stop. Geralt isn’t affected, because witchers are meant to live until some beast kills them, but he sees the years on Jaskier: in the way his hair begins to grey, silver mixing with his deep brown; in the way he doesn’t play his lute as often because the joints in his fingers ache fiercely and he can’t sleep on the ground because his back protests too much.

In the wrinkles around his eyes when he grins.

In the way his breathing becomes labored in the winter with cold and fever that lasts longer and longer each year he gets it.

In the way, one day, he can’t leave their bed in their little house on the coast, because at one point Jaskier asked, _Will you go with me?_ and Geralt replied, _Of course._

His cough is the worst it’s ever been. Geralt sits beside him on the edge of the bed, careful of his weight so he doesn’t jostle Jaskier needlessly. He brushes hair damp with fever-sweat from Jaskier’s forehead, fingers lingering against his skin. Jaskier leans into it when he finally settles, breaths ragged in his chest. 

His eyes are still bright, still the beautiful cornflower blue Geralt noticed first about him.

“I suppose it’s about that time,” Jaskier rasps. His voice has taken much abuse the last few years from coughing fits, no longer smooth and musical. Geralt loves it regardless. He offers Geralt a tired smile. “It’s been quite the adventure, witcher.”

Geralt swallows thickly. “Don’t say that,” he pleads, softly. His own voice is rough with emotion—he’s learned to let it out, bit by bit, while with Jaskier. It was the least he could do after everything he’d put him through, and it really hasn’t ever been a hardship to tell Jaskier how much he’s loved. “Don’t leave me.”

“It’s time,” jaskier repeats, almost sadly. “You know this better than anyone, Geralt. Time stops for no one.” He manages a smile, still as teasing as ever. His hands, frail and weak now, take Geralt’s and hold them with what strength he has. “Not even for the great White Wolf’s own bard.”

“ _Jaskier._ ” Geralt blinks away the tears stinging behind his eyes. It’s not—it isn’t _fair,_ it’s not fair that Geralt is having to watch his heart leave him again, slowly and painfully. It hasn’t been nearly long enough since the last time. It hasn’t been nearly long enough since the beginning.

Geralt has lived a long, long life, and his time with Jaskier hasn’t been _long enough._

“What am I to do without you?” Geralt asks. He leans down, slowly, carefully, mindful of the pain Jaskier is in, and rests their heads together. “Who will sing me songs while we travel the world, and who will I tell to shut up because he’s so annoying?”

Jaskier huffs at that. “I suppose you’ll have to find another bard,” he replies. “Someone will be willing to sing about you.”

"I won’t want them,” Geralt admits. “You’re the one who has my heart. It’s always been yours.”

It makes Jaskier laugh, and then he’s doubled over with a wracking cough, and Geralt holds him while it runs its course. When he calms, Jaskier looks at him with watering eyes. “I’ll make a poet of you yet, dear heart,” he says, voice nothing but a fond whisper; it makes Geralt’s heart ache, a heaviness deep in his chest that makes it hard to breathe.

“Stay with me, then,” Geralt begs, and it _is_ begging—he’s scraped raw on the inside, wanting, _needing_ Jaskier to stay, to remain at his side, never to leave him again. It was bad enough the first time, how is Geralt to cope with it now?

He doesn’t think he will.

“You know I want to,” Jaskier soothes, “but I can’t. My adventure is done. It’s time to let me go.”

“I don’t want to. You’re my bard. I can’t be without my bard.”

“You’ll be fine,” Jaskier tells him firmly. He’s starting to drift off, eyes closing and too slow to open, finally staying shut. Geralt only holds him tighter. “Promise me you’ll move on, Geralt. Don’t linger on this. Your life is too long to waste on me.”

“You’re not a waste,” Geralt murmurs into his hair. “You were never a waste.”

Jaskier only hums, nothing more than a sigh, so soft Geralt wouldn’t have been able to hear it were it not for his witcher senses. His breathing slows, and Geralt closes his eyes, counting the rise and fall of his chest, the slowing rhythm of his heart.

It matches Geralt’s for three beats—

—then it stops.

He holds Jaskier close, lips pressed against his forehead, and lets his tears fall freely. 

  
  


_You were the one_ _  
_ _I wanted most_ _  
_ _to stay._

 _But time could not_ _  
_ _be kept at bay._

 _The more it goes,_  
_the more it’s gone—_  
_the more it takes away._

— Lang Leav

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up on twitter [@troubadorer](http://twitter.com/troubadorer) to yell at me for hurting u like i have and also to yell abt these dumbs in love


End file.
